In the Land of the River Sea
by NineStoicCrayolas
Summary: She does not know where she is. Or why they are here with her. She only knows the sharp, brutal pain of the knife and the dreams. Or: Orochimaru's Lab is busted early and everything else goes to hell in a handbasket. (OC-Insert and a handful of other problems)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto. I do own, however, this character and all of the SI/OC characters that I introduce to this story.

 **Status:** Incomplete

 **Summary:** She does not know where she is. Or why they are here with her. She only knows the sharp, brutal pain of the knife and the dreams. Or: Orochimaru's Lab is busted early and everything else goes to hell in a handbasket.

* * *

There is a small, heavy beat in her chest. One that she does not know. It is quick, heady, like when the sharp things slide under her skin and try to slice away at her essence. The beat is steady in its swiftness, like an unwavering drum, never faltering, never straying from its melody.

It feels strange in her chest.

Alien.

Like it didn't _belong._

 _Ba-bump._ It goes. _Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump._

It is almost lyrical in its frequency, as if telling a story from start to finish in those single instants. But she knows it still doesn't belong. She likes the beat, likes the steady, constant sound against her ribcage, but it doesn't _belong._

It feels wrong under her skin, like the viens it sounds from are trying to carve their way out from under her flesh and leave the sack of muscle and meat behind. She does not like it—this feeling. The beat makes her feel naked, vulnerable, like someone is probing around under her skin, making her body react without her permission.

The beat isn't supposed to be there. She knows this because at first, it wasn't. There was no beat, no sound, only darkness. It was still and quiet, never making a sound. There was no _ba-bump_ , no steady hiss of blood in her veins, no trickle of sludgy fire under her skin, permeating her muscles.

With the beat comes fire and blood and _heat._

There is no noise, not at first. Only the steady hum of the beat in her ears and the rush of her mind, telling her that she was awake now; from what, she did not know. But then, slowly, her ears pick up the sound of hissing and shifting and slurring. Not at first though. It is gradual, edging its way into her skin, bones, until it works its way into her mind, ringing out against the silence she bathes herself in. The sounds…the hissing...sound strange to her mind, and sometimes—only sometimes, she gets tired easily—she tries to follow the sounds, ever curious.

 _("—she's moving—_ _reacting to sound—look at her, what a beautiful, beautiful girl—")_

With the sounds come the feelings.

The sensation of tingling and suddenly, the awareness that she is not simply an _essence,_ an _awareness._ She is something…maybe even a someone. What a someone is, she does not know, only that she heard it once, a stutter of words, a gaggle of incomprehension— _("Operation Seven, Subject Eight, Number 80398. July 10_ _th_ _—she reacts to sound. Heartrate above—someone's excited today—")_ —an unknown.

With the tingling and the sounds; the rush, the hissing, the shifting and slurring comes the sludge. The first time she feels the sludge, _("Inducting chakra now—careful, careful—ah there we go, she's acclimatizing—go on, my lovely. You be good for me now.")_ , she jerks, _("Oh, would you look at that, a work of art!—she's moving, she's_ _ **moving**_ _—!")_ and opens her mouth to cry out.

She chokes on something, spine stiffening, and then the awareness sets in. The slow, careful ebb of _something_ curdling in her veins, the steady, constant essence that is slowly, carefully, seeping into her skin, oozing into her bones. It slides under her skin like a snake, sinister and roiling, like it wants to tear itself away from her and _leave—_

It _hurts._

It aches—like fire and pins and all of the bad things in the world—she just wants it to _stop._ If she could, she would tear it out from underneath her skin. She wants to burn it all and take it away; wants to beg and beg and beg until someone _stops._ It feels like someone—something—is pinning her down and making her boil alive; as if someone is peeling the skin from her muscles, carving a path into her core, alien fingers gripping her little pool of slick bubbles that rests in the middle of her chest and flares when she hears the sounds.

She sobs when they give her the sludge. She even screams, she thinks, thrashing. The sharp things under her skin jostle and she tries to move, tries to tear them out, because they _hurt—_

 _("—just a little more—"_

" _Are you sure—sama—?"_

"— _A little more—!")_

Then, one day, the sludge settles inside of her like silt on a muddy bank.

It mingles with her own little pool of bubbles, and slowly, carefully, it mixes and mixes and mixes until she can no longer tell them apart. The shift to match each other seamlessly, and suddenly, she realizes, that she doesn't have a little pool anymore, no, what she had was _enormous_ and suffocating—like—like—

 _Something else._

It did not belong to her.

After the sludge settles and shifts, and shifts, and shifts, she begins to move.

Tiny, insignificant jerks. Little jolts of movements that make her face scrunch up, her lips bunch in a snarl, her fingers twitch if only minutely. It still hurts. The sludge doesn't go away and it only itches now, but the movements ache. Like she's never been able to move before. Like her muscles aren't used to twitching or jolting or stiffening in release.

The sounds are still there.

Everything is so _loud_ now. The silence has dissipated, and the noises feel like static against her ears, drudging up everything that she doesn't want to hear. The slurring and hissing, she finds out, are _words._ She doesn't know how she knows they are words. She only knows that that is what they _are._

Slowly, slowly, she begins to wonder. She begins to imagine. Her mind wanders to faraway lands; filled with gold and blue, so much blue, and little sea turtles and animals that scatter around, their chirps and whirls and loops of the tongue winding around her mind.

She _dreams._

She doesn't mind them—the dreams she means.

It is a break from the slow, dull agony of the sludge and the steady, insistent hum that thunders in her chest. The dreams let her think and play and stumble in her mind, and take a break from the awful hissing and the noise and slurred, hurried words that seem to echo all around her, as if in an antechamber.

They fill up her time, her mind, her thoughts until all she can think of, all she can _dream_ of is—blue-yellow-green dapples on sand, little critters running around on water, tiny, insistent birds chattering around an island. She dreams of what she thinks is the sea, but she's not so sure so she calls it the Blue, because it is. So blue, she means. So, so, so _blue._

She wants to touch it.

In her dreams she can never touch anything.

That's the only sad part.

Everything shines bright, brighter than bright, but she can never touch. Her hands swipe right through the blue, cleaving through brown and yellow and choppy earth until all she touches is the silt of her muddy bank, the slow, toxic sludge that roils inside of her.

It makes her whine.

 _("—reacting to stimuli—wonderful—fantastic, my little one—you will be_ _ **fabulous**_ _—")_

She's sitting on the yellow one day, watching the little scattered critters inch across the sand when it happens. One second she is leaning forward, trying to catch the chattering little thing and the next—

Pain erupts under her skin—

She _screams._

 _("She doesn't like that—just a little more, a little more—don't you worry, precious child, precious, precious child—inch by inch, there you go, there you—did you see that—that—that right there—!")_

It feels like someone is tearing her apart.

Something pushes and arches and suddenly, she twists, the yellow disappearing out from underneath her, the little critters and blue, (all of the blue, she croons, crying) is gone and she bellows in agony when something slides under her skin.

It is like fire. Like fire and pain and all the bad things in the world and all she wants, all she _needs_ is for someone to _stop—stop, stop, stop—please, someone stop!_

She pants and arches and chokes on her own spit, eyes rolling back into her head. Something pushes down onto her chest and then another sludge is burning right through her, soothing and calming, but she can still feel _it_ —the insistent, rocky ache. Like pins and needles behind her eyes—

She opens her mouth—

Her eyes flutter open, for a second, half a second—

A pale expanse. Yellow blobs.

"Would you look at that," The thing pants. "She's awake."

 _What is a she?_

The thing croons, long, meaty things from fat, pale squared circles descend upon her and she feels something brush the top of her head.

"Blue." The thing tuts, but she's already focused on it—it said the thing. The _Blue._ Where is it? She wants it now. She needs the _blue._ Needs the yellow and brown and choppy parts—the little critters that amble around inside the darkness and fill up the silence; block out the hissing and the slurring and the slow, steady thrum that's beating wildly inside of her chest.

"A shame. Hair shouldn't be as conspicuous as that."

 _What is hair?_ _What is that thing?_ Why is he—

"A pity she's awake now, though," The thing creases, pale expanse folding like misaligned folds. "Well. Let's hope you survive, little girl."

Her muscles twitch and something bunches in a contortion and then—

Something sharp gleams in its meaty paws and—

Pain shatters against her skin.

There is a startling realization that whatever is oozing from her skin is red, red, _red,_ and then she sobs, trying to get the thing to _stop—please—please stop!_

The last thing she sees is the glint of something metal and the aching, searing pain that echoes across the chasm of her mind.

* * *

Tell me what you think! Also; don't judge me for starting another story, dear god my brain just works too fast to keep up with everything and this is the only way I can get all of the ideas out.

Hope you all enjoy! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Status: Incomplete

A/N: So? A new update? Hope you enjoy :)

* * *

Her awakening doesn't jolt her out of her unconsciousness.

It is slow and dull and pulsing. A slow, burning awareness that makes her mind flutter and arch, wondering and wondering and wondering. Her consciousness is different now, and she feels alien inside of her own body.

 _(Her fingers are not her fingers, her toes are not her toes, this skin is not her skin—)_

There is something different about her now, and the awareness brings loss.

There is a sharp, searing pain behind her eyes and there is the familiar, alien beat that hums underneath her skin. She feels papery, broken; as if someone has taken the very soul from her body and put it right back into her, changed and irreparable.

As if her heart is going to beat right out of her chest, taking the hum and the heat and the blood right with it.

The first thing she notices is that everything is wet.

 _Wet. Is this what the Blue should feel like?_

Her fingers twitch, enjoying the way the cool slick feels against her skin; how it soothes and soothes and soothes until she feels replenished and her skin doesn't feel so papery anymore and creases at the edges of the wet.

The next thing she notices is that everything is gray.

The black of her mind and the familiar dreamscape is gone, replaced by blurry, broken images, ones that flicker and shift over her. All she could see, all she knew now was the gray. It shifted and hissed and slurred over her vision, taking away the darkness but leaving only murky, undefined light.

 _(The gray took and took and took and took until—)_

It was terrifying—so, so different from the dappled yellow-blue-green landscapes that her mind had built her. She didn't like the gray. It was menacing; silence reigned in the gray, only broken in the dripping, slurring sound of machinations that were too far to see. Sometimes, she thought she could see the edge of a brown box, the panel of translucent pane, and then it was gone, the gray sliding over her eyes again, swirling, twisting, and threatening.

The first couple of months after she wakes are gray.

 _(She panics at first—her screams echo in the lab—but she doesn't remember anything apart from heavy arms dragging her down—sharp, gleaming scalpels clawing their way into her skin—"stay still, stay still."—)_

The dreams were gone; leaving in a swivel of ill thought and sharp, glittering knives that choke, carve, and slice away at her skin. All she could remember, from before, was an expanse of pale, the glittering shallows of the Blue and the muddy, earthen yellow banks of her dreams. The gray took it all away, choking the life, the thoughts from her very mind—little shifting, slurring shadows that flickered in front of her and moved threateningly, ready to tear her away at any moment.

Little whispers of echoes crawl up her spine when she looks at the gray and the agony of the loss of her dreams fill her up once more. When she awoke, there had been pain, there had been loss and now—

Now there is nothing.

Her world has changed.

The hissing noises have stopped the slurring and the slow, tinkling of words are unable to reach her now. Even the heavy, thrumming beat under her skin is less audible now, and she has to press her fingers against her wrist to feel it again.

Sometimes, the pain comes back. The slices that slip under her skin burn and burn and burn, for days and days after the pain returns. She can't get comfortable. Her breath is always coming short. It feels as if someone is pouring something into her, taking and giving at the same time and it _aches_.

More than it should—more than it _ever_ should.

She still hears echoes even though the noises have stopped. The beat humming under her skin rises when she hears them—the words. Slow, hurried, quick, gentle, she can hear them all. They play over, and over, and over in her mind and—and—it terrifies her. She does not know what they mean, only that they bring pain, and that they have given her gray instead of the dappled blue worlds she so hungers for.

There are more slices under her skin now, more than ever before and it blisters against her, so much she has to bite her bloody lips to stop from screaming. The worst part is that every single inch of her body aches. She shivers, her skin hot, and they press another slice under her skin. She whines, jolting against the heavy, pounding ache that drills into her temple, and they hold her down, making her take more and more of the sludge until her own bubbles are choking and gasping under the strain.

The gray soothes, if only a little. But she yearns for fields of blue and yellow and dappled brown-green. She aches for the dreams that they have taken from her and replaced with echoes of words and sludge, slices and _pain._

So much pain.

She just wants it to _stop_ —

And then.

And then—

One day. The world. _Jolts._

Something slides against her thoughts. It is distant at first. Fleeting, like brushes of the thing's hands when the put the slices under her skin. She doesn't pay much attention to it, not for a while—she's in too much pain; her attention is split between panting, trying not to move too much and praying for unconsciousness. Her existence is littered with nausea, regret and lingering hope that someone—something, even—would come, maybe, and _help_ instead of cut her down again and again and again.

But then, it happens once more.

The same, fleeting, swift brush of consciousness on hers. The press of a fluttering warmth in her skull, the strange, foreign flicker of _something_ that makes her choke back screams and hope for something to save her. She swallows then, mouth drier than normal, and tries to cough through her anxiety—she doesn't know what the sludge has done or the slices, but it can't be good if—

Something trickles, oozing like sludge and wet brown, inside of her mind and she tries not to scream _._

Wet slides down her cheeks, leaking from her eyes—she is so scared—she doesn't know what's _happening_ to her.

' _Hello?'_

She stays very, very, very still. Maybe, maybe, if she doesn't move, they won't—

' _I can hear you talking to yourself, you know. It's not very nice that you're trying to hide.'_

The thrum picks up in her chest and her throat goes dry, hands clenching in fear. The glint of silver had _done something_ and she isn't sure—she isn't sure just quite _what_ it has done. The searing, blistering pain from months ago came back to her thoughts like a sick, faded memory, broken by rage and fear and pain and she whimpers, jerking against the slices under her skin.

' _I think...is this what happens after you die? I mean…not exactly what I was expecting. I thought—angels for sure. Church always taught me that if I died I'd be going to Italian heaven—choir angels singing, unlimited buffets, God maybe sitting on a throne or something—'_

She whines, the sound grating against her dry, aching throat and the slices move under her skin. She just wants the words to go _away_ —she doesn't know anything—she doesn't have anything to share—there was a skitter of steps, an inhale and then—

"She's moving. She's _moving_ —Kabuto!" Something shouts. It's too loud, too rash against her ears and she wants them all to _shut up._ The noises in her head, the thing that's shouting all too loud—she craves the quiet now and she regrets her wishes for familiar echoes of dreams and scattered, skittering sounds—she just wants them all to be _quiet now—please—_

"Prepare the chakra." The thing says, in the familiar, hissing tone that has haunted her mind. "She's awake now, so she should stand it."

Something brushes her forehead and she tries to jolt away, but it catches her face, keeping her very, very still. A soft, feather-like thing brushes her brow, moving down, down, down until it reaches between her eyebrows. It moves to her cheeks, looping and whirling and until her cheeks and forehead and covered in wet,dripping liquid.

It's cold.

' _Hey—hey what's going on? What's happening—'_

Shut up, shut up, shut up—please go _away—_

' _I can—what's happening to you? To us? To me—_

NO WORDS—PLEASE NO WORDS—

"Orochimaru-sama," Something else says a low, calm rumble of words that scramble her panicked thoughts. The voice feels calm, like it knows what its doing and she…she trusts it more than the other one. "It's in here."

"Good." The other croons, low and sweet, a sultry dance of threat and promise. Something brushes her ear. "You will be perfect."

She tries to jerk away, but the things keep her in place.

' _What's going on—hey, hey—tell me—'_

Blinding pain rushes through her and she wails, choked and broken, her spine arching while the things—' _hands, oh my gods—what are they doing to you'_ —keep her down. Something similar to the sludge settles into her bones and she chokes on her tongue. The beat rushes wildly in her chest, thumping against her bones and she claws at her skin, trying to tear it out of her.

She needs the sludge _out._ She needs it out _now._

"Inducing natural chakra. Harvested from Hashirama forest, inner bark. Properties include _sage_ chakra and healing abilities. Effect, unknown."

This time the sludge does not press inside of her, does not edge its way under her skin—

It _rips_ into her, tearing into her flesh so painfully she bucks against the slices, a scream leaving her lips. Wet rushes down her cheeks and she chokes on the fluids that coat her tongue, eyes suddenly going wide.

There are two figures above her, swathed in gray and slurring color that makes it hard for her to keep her eyes open. She screams and sobs, cries and bellows in pain—it _aches_ , it aches so _bad and she just needs it to stop—_

' _WHAT IS THIS?'_

She lets out a garbled screech, choked through her screams and soaked in lingering echoes of pain and anger and _rage_ —who are _they_ to do this to _her?_ —

"I'll kill you," She sobs, but she's not sure what those words mean, she doesn't know how to say them other than a scrambled, misunderstood imitation of the resonances in her mind, but she _screams it at them_ —

' _I'LL KI_ LL YOU!" She roars the things called _words_ and hopes, that maybe, maybe, _maybe_ if she—if she does something—

The meaty, thick things that hold her down stutter and she bellows in pain.

Then, there is a crash, a scream and—

—she forgets the words that flickered against her mind—

Pandemonium erupts.

* * *

tell me if ya liked it, y'all :) I think (hope?) I'll be updating soon! Thanks so much for reading!

\- NineStoicCrayolas.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto.

 **Status:** Incomplete

 **Summary:** She does not know where she is. Or why they are here with her. She only knows the sharp, brutal pain of the knife and the dreams. Or: Orochimaru's Lab is busted early and everything else goes to hell in a handbasket.

* * *

The first sound he ever remembers hearing is screaming. He doesn't know the name for it—not at first—but that harsh, high-pitched wail and screeching can only be one thing. Later—much, much, _much_ later, he will come to realize that it is _her_ screaming that drives him to do it, that makes the thing in his head _snap_ and _break until_ —It scrapes his soul to hear it, that _crash_ of fear and pain and _agony_.

The first time he ever remembers hearing is also the first time he remembers sight.

His vision is grainy and blotchy—black and white—until one day it steadies and—and—and—

He can _see._

He blinks. Once. Twice. Around him is green. Things leave his arms; encased in metal, tubing in and out; suctioned. He wants to thrash, to fight against it, but before he can even _dare_ to begin—

He hears laughter.

His eyes snap upwards, and it burns, the muscles not used to moving on their own—tears crawl into his eyes and _ache_ —and he scans the room; wet, dripping, yet surprisingly Spartan in its structure; and pitches his head forward to try and catch it again.

He spies the _thing—blob—person?_ And the breath inside his lungs stutters violently.

She is _small._ Ridiculously so. Her legs don't reach the end of the cot, and her arms are stubby and—she is _small._ Her hair is blue. It's shaved to the skull in clumps—some locks hang in long, aquamarine, electric knots and clusters—and others…he can see the wonky, inflamed stitching, the sutures and _redredred_ holes.

Her eyes are what capture his attention. They're big, and a piercing, brilliant gray— _luminescent._ They're riveted on the ceiling and; and; he thinks—maybe if— _if she can see him—theycanleave—_

 _(No more subject 1123457, November 7_ _th_ _; no more—"Just a little more, just a little,")_

She gurgles, and her arms stretch out to catch something unseen. Giggles filter out from her mouth and he thinks, wow, her skin is very pale—he thinks of a woman he once saw, and she's hazy in his memories, but he remembers her ashen skin and trembling hands and— _he's not going to think about that anymore._

There are footsteps, and the girl begins to whine. She struggles against the restraints and thrashes and now, she's sobbing and he thinks— _stop, just stop, please stop they'll hurt you and I can't—_

The screams start again and he closes his eyes.

~.~

It takes him six seconds to decide that _this is enough youcannotdothistous—_

Pandemonium erupts.

~.~

The wind blows through the trees, and Obito closes his eyes against the breeze. It lifts the hair off his neck, and he lets out a gusty sigh, the tension in his shoulders already loosening. He's sweaty—and sticky. The sun had been high today, the heat making the shadows long and the burn of the sun fiercer. He's sure that his cheeks are already pink, from both running around Konoha ( _seven full laps, Minato-sensei? Are you_ _ **trying**_ _to kill us?)_ and the overbearing torridness that had heated up the valley, filling the air with thick, musty humidity and heavy rainclouds.

Kakashi had gone off to train again, as usual, and Rin had left early for another training course at Konoha General Hospital. Minato had a date with Kushina-baka and he had apologized sheepishly, cheeks pink _(but not from the heat or the running, the bastard)_ and disappeared in a flash of gold and yellow, leaving Obito with the promise to train extra hard on his fire jutsu tomorrow.

He doesn't want to go home.

Not to the suffocating emptiness of loneliness, or to the stifling echo of the long lost.

Still, he'd done everything he needed to—shopped for groceries near Hokage-sama's tower, picked up the deliveries at the weapon's shop, dealt with the haggling price and had to use the Uchiha Glare (patented, of course) to convince the shop owner to lower the cost, and well, now…Now there was nothing to do.

So he inches his way home, a scowl sewn into his face, feet trudging across the bricks, hoping that something or someone will stop him and ask him to help.

For once in his life, he actually _wants_ to be late.

This is what he's thinking about when it happens.

It doesn't happen right away, but when it does, it happens quickly.

Later—later—he won't be able to remember much of it.

He scuffs his feet against the sandy brick and frowns. Something's—something's _shaking—_ the earth begins to rumble and groan and the metal bars screech as they stretch to acclimate the movements. Things begin to roll—the frying pan from Ichiraku's with all the scalding-hot ramen in it narrowly misses his arm, and Obito jumps back just as the trees rip out of the ground and tear a hole through the street.

People scream and run; shinobi hurl themselves towards the danger; the genin and chunnin corps escort the screaming, sobbing civilians to safety, their eyes hard and mouths pursed tightly.

And Obito—Obito stands still in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open.

Obito stares at them.

A pair of dark brown eyes meet his. Desperation waves through them, and the thing— _boy_ —opens his mouth to say something—

The bundle in his arms moans and then he's gone.

Obito's still standing in the street, eyes wide when they find him.

~.~

He's got to run, he thinks.

He looks down at her and his hands clench in what remains of her hair. She's hot—feverish—and she begins to sweat. Her body is a furnace; a fire; she's too hot to survive. She's trembling, shaking against him and her grip is weak around his neck. She shivers like she' s freezing, and he knows, somehow, he's got to get her to someone who can help.

He's got to run, he promises himself.

He doesn't ever want to see those yellow eyes again.

* * *

right, so, tell me what you think? That would be much appreciated! thank you so much for reading :)


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